


Defend us in battle

by emmadelosnardos



Category: FORD Ford Madox - Works, Parade's End - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Sylvia did know something about, after Drake, was the way of a maid with a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defend us in battle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [error_42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/error_42/gifts), [kingaofthewoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingaofthewoods/gifts), [professorfangirl (lizeckhart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizeckhart/gifts).



> I am planning to write three short fics about Parade's End. The first was from Valentine's perspective, the next will be from Christopher's, and this story is for Sylvia.
> 
> It was an interesting exercise to write this scene and to try to put myself in Sylvia's place, because I find her character very difficult to like. But after Rebecca Hall's portrayal of her in the BBC, I am finding her more sympathetic than when I first read the books. And the more I thought about her predicament, and that of many women who get unintentionally pregnant (whether in 1912 or 2012), I felt that I could understand and like her more.
> 
> Thanks to error_42, phantomviola, mizuki1988, bennysbookclub, and not-bridget (among others!) for some fantastic conversations about Parade's End over on tumblr.

‘And then,’ Sylvia said, ‘he tickled me, yes, he _tickled_ me, under the chin, as if I had been a little girl.’ She laughed. ‘I was drunk, or nearly so, and I thought he was, too – he kept pouring the champagne. But now I rather think he wasn’t drunk.’

She remembered the tall, glowing flutes of champagne; the deep dip of her neckline, the gold thread against the white silk of her evening gown; the gold ring on his finger, catching the light.

‘You must _do_ something,’ her friend was saying. ‘You must strike now!’

‘And he was horrid to me afterwards –’ Sylvia smiled, her head held high. ‘ _Beastly!_ But I liked it, somehow. Perhaps it was the champagne… _That_ kind of beast. When you know that a man is a man. _You_ know.’

‘Sylvia,’ Moira said sternly. ‘Have you spoken with your mother?’

Sylvia raised her hand, as if to strike her…

‘Mrs Satterthwaite --’ she began.

Sylvia remembered herself as if she were seeing the scene from afar, when she was very small and very pious, kneeling in the small chapel at her grandmother’s estate, and Father Consett was speaking, in Latin and then in English, far away from her. The room was painted to look like a Roman villa, all false pillars and rosy-cheeked cherubim and sacred hearts _,_ and the priest appeared as if at the other end of the telescope, a small speck of a man…

_For this thing the Lord himself shall give a sign to you._

‘How can I _know_?’ Sylvia wailed.

For _she_ was no virgin, but neither was she a whore, and she had had no knowledge of men before Drake. Gerald had straight white teeth, and a fine dark moustache, and a bright gold ring. But the champagne was brighter…. It had been dreadful and also thrilling – his hand on her neck, over her mouth, hushing her as he pushed her further into the conservatory. There were large Chinese vases full of calla lilies, a pale wicker bench, and in the background, faintly, someone singing Monteverdi… _No, no che i martiri più non darammi affè_.

She would not be a martyr! Not for Drake!

‘I shall speak to her,’ Moira said, as if through a glass.

That had been two weeks before, and now Sylvia found herself in a close, cushioned train compartment. She had not received the sign, after all. Forsaken…

A tall, pale man had entered, solid and stiff, with something of the ox about him – nothing like the brown sleekness of Drake – but she recognized him at once. A younger son, some kind of public servant – Whitehall, perhaps? No, Department of Statistics, he was saying, the northern accent not quite bred out of him. He knew who she was, too: a point in her favour. No, not an ox: a bear? A bull? _The black bull of Norroway;_ her nurse had told her the story, and she had liked the idea of climbing on that bull’s back, or was it a bear? A bear in one story, a bull in another. The princess had followed the bull to a glass valley, and he gave her food and drink, and was kind to her, but she fell into the glass valley and could not climb up the crystal walls… _Seven long years I served for thee…The glassy hill I clamb for thee…_

She would not serve any man! She would make him serve _her_! Sylvia Satterthwaite would _not_ kneel…

As a little girl Sylvia had stomped her foot and pulled at her hair until her nurse had given her everything she wanted: apples and pears and plums and all manner of fruit, until she had eaten herself sick. She never had the patience to save anything till later.

Leaning against the back of the carriage, the bore was going on about miners’ widows and railroad shares! And feed for horses! Dull as death…As if _she_ knew the least thing about oats and peas and barley…

What Sylvia _did_ know something about, after Drake, was the way of a maid with a man.

It had been easy, ridiculously easy….Was it always this easy? Was every man who looked at her twice just waiting for the opportunity to catch her alone in a railway carriage, on the way back from a dull garden party, to have his wicked, wicked way? A horizon spread out before her. Every man, it seemed, was a blackguard at heart. Strip away civilization, get him alone with her for an instant, and he was ready to ravish her, paw at her breasts, bite her mouth…Shameless! Those brutes!

The youngest Tietjens was going up to town, like she was; no one was likely to enter their carriage for the remainder of the journey. There was something deep in his voice when he said he knew who she was, something that pulled at her chest as Drake's voice had done – but she would _not_ be drawn to him. It was madness! It was all madness: the champagne and the white lilies and now this, the brocaded carriage seat and the luggage rack above her. He had reached over her to secure his case, close enough for her to smell the pomade he used, the same pine scent as Drake’s.

It had not taken much, after that. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine it _was_ Drake, and she knew it would be over quickly. He had that look in his eye…the look of sin, Father Consett would have said.

She was paying for Drake’s sins and Tietjens would pay for hers! It was only fair, when all men were wretched; it was in their nature. She hadn’t stood a chance against Drake.

The man kissed her, shakily, hurriedly, as if he were calculating the number of minutes they had before the train arrived in Paddington. Later, she would think that this _had_ most likely been one of his thoughts, that even as he was pulling her close to him and rubbing his large hands over her filigreed breasts, his mind was floating high above the train and he was calculating, calculating the horsepower of the engine and the miles to London and the likelihood of seeing her again before he’d had a chance to think over this business and what was to be done about it all.

By then Sylvia had also been lost in thought. His hands were not nearly so greedy as Drake’s, and she thought that there might be something, after all, to him working so closely with horses. He would be gentle with the bit, like his fingers were with her. He was not so much tugging her towards him as letting her fall over him.

‘May I—?’ he began. ‘That is—Miss Satterth—’

She cut him off with a kiss, almost biting his lower lip in her eagerness. He would _not_ stop now! Not when she had just settled her skirts around his hips – oh, how _loudly_ the silk rustled!... And if someone should hear them! But no, she’d hear if anyone opened the door to this carriage, she’d have a few seconds to put herself in order. She’d be flushed and panting, like she was now, but there was still time, if anyone came…

They kissed for a few minutes more. He seemed to get used to the feel of her hips against his, bearing down on him and letting him pull her closer. He smelled of pine and perspiration and wool, and he made little grunts like Gerald had. The train shook and swayed, urging them together. His hands were about her waist, spanning them, then moving lower to grasp her hips. They rose and fell with the movement of the train, steam moving steel moving flesh.

Then there was the business of lifting up her skirts and pulling aside her loose knickers…She had _not,_ as Moira had suggested, gone _sans culotte,_ so it was a bit more trouble than she had anticipated. He reached his hands underneath her petticoats, fumbled at the soft fabric of her knickers, and she could feel his fat, hot fingers against the bare skin of her upper thighs. She jerked away – _no one must touch her there but Gerald! –_ and he apologized, drew his hand away. Sylvia grabbed it, brought it back to rest on the bare skin of her plump buttocks. He let out a groan, then, and Sylvia reached down to open his trousers and draw him out.

She could not help but laugh…it was all so easy, child’s play! And it would be all over before tea.

Her hand twisted through his drawers and found his penis, smooth and firm. She tugged him towards her and propped herself over him; he seemed to hesitate so she kissed him again.

She had not expected that it would be quite so easy to take him in. Gerald had never had her this way, sitting on top of him, and she was unprepared for the easy stretch in her groin, the smoothness with which she settled herself around him. The first time with Drake had hurt, and the second and third times, too. After that she had not minded so much, but there was always an element of shock and a brief jab of pain before her body settled around Drake’s. And then, always too soon, he would begin to pound into her, and she would feel him hitting her hard, deep inside, and something terrible in her wanted to push him _out_ of her, it felt wrong to have something there insid her. But something equally as terrible had wanted Drake to keep up that pounding, to strike the badness out of her until she was clear-headed and calm and angelic.

But this other man hesitated. What _would_ she have to do to make him move? He had got himself inside her but still he would not move. It was a cruelty, to be so close and yet he would not move! He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat, a vacant expression on his face. She almost slapped him in frustration.

She had to make him move. There wasn’t much time, and he was in her, and they were almost there…so close, _so close._ If only he would move!

Glancing downwards, she saw him open his eyes and, aware that he was looking up at her, his mouth agape, she threw her head backwards in imitation of his posture of ecstasy. She grabbed the bar of the luggage rack and lifted herself a half inch, at one with the movement of the train, and came down hard on him. He would do as she wished! He _would_! She would carry him away…

This part was easy, too. A keening began at the back of his throat, high-pitched and foreign, and his hands grasped more tightly around her buttocks as she moved up and down over him. She almost laughed in satisfaction and relief when he pushed up into her and let himself go with a deep moan. 

Then Tietjens pushed his nose into her neck, kissed her collarbones with frenzied haste. ‘I—’ he began, trying to speak. ‘I want to say—’

‘Hush!’ She said, sharply, then: ‘Someone might hear you.’ She hated the thought that he might be tender with her. There was no room for tenderness, in this.

She pulled away from him and adjusted her knickers and skirts before sitting down on the opposite bench. He would not look her in the eye as he buttoned up his trousers. She noticed the signet ring he wore on his smallest finger as he tucked away his shirt; strange, that she had not seen the ring before. Her own medallion had bounced against her chest as she rode him; what would Father Consett think of that? _Saint Michael Archangel, defend us in battle…_

If it were a boy, Michael; a girl, Margaret Lily. Catholic baptism – not at Groby, they would never allow that! But she would have her way. Father Consett could be persuaded, perhaps, to visit her and the child, when Michael was still very young. The child _must_ be raised Catholic! Otherwise for what had she done this act?

‘Will you join me in the dining car?’ he was asking her. But that would mean – to be seen publically – she demurred. He left her then; he understood her refusal. He would not speak to her again unless…

He received her telegraph several weeks later.

The sign had come and she was still forsaken.

**Author's Note:**

> Isaiah 7:14. _For this thing the Lord himself shall give a sign to you. Lo! a virgin shall conceive, and shall bear a son; and his name shall be called Immanuel._
> 
> The Black Bull of Norroway: English folktale.
> 
> Monteverdi’s ‘Lamento della ninfa’ (The nymph’s lament.) _No, no che i martiri più non darammi affè._ English translation: ‘No! He will not make me suffer anymore, I swear!’
> 
> Fra Angelico’s Virgins, which Father Consett compares to Sylvia. I’m especially reminded of his Annunciation scenes, given that Sylvia is another unmarried woman who is expecting a child. Image below.  
>  ****  
> 


End file.
